


For Loving Arthur

by wearethewitches



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Underworld (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Canon, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, Gen, Harry Potter was Adopted by Other(s), Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Name Changes, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Vampires, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Women In Power, Young Harry Potter, harry potter was raised by vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25887580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: On November first, 1981, a lycan woman walks through Little Whinging; and so, the stories we know and love begin to unravel from their seams.(AKA, that fic where Selene raises Harry.)
Relationships: Amelia (Underworld)/Selene (Underworld), Harry Potter & Selene (Underworld), Lucian (Underworld)/Selene (Underworld)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 127





	1. Prologue

Lucian, of course, is using her as bait.

Yelena knows that – she doesn’t mind that. If she can draw even a single Deathdealer away from the coven, that’s one less threat for the pack to deal with in central Europe. She knows that there is a distinct possibility she could die tonight, in this small English town with its many suburbs and cul-de-sacs; but what kind of lycan is she, if she is not willing to put her life on the line for her brothers?

Ducking out of the main thoroughfare down an empty street, Yelena picks up the pace, a grim smile on her face. Daybreak is less than an hour away. Despite the oncoming winter and the cold nights, the sky is already lightening in preparation for sun-up.

 _If I can get far enough away from civilisation, they’ll have to back off,_ she thinks, calculating her next steps. A rusty signpost with stark white lettering tells her that the little street will lead her to a park – one she can see off in the distance, over a yellow-brown field of mud and dead grass. Past that, she can see another part of the town. _Yes. There._

Traversing the field is a high-stakes decision. Flat ground, no cover – if the Deathdealer has no compunctions against using firearms in pretty old England, then Yelena is dead. But it seems that luck is on her side. From the clear skies and the crisp breeze, Yelena predicts one last sunny day before the true cold of winter hits, the last of autumn fading away.

She enters Little Whinging, sans Deathdealer.

The suburb is still asleep at this time in the morning, the milkman making his rounds. Yelena lets herself relax minutely, adrenaline ebbing as her gait slows and she meanders through the identical white-washed houses. Yelena remembers an elder time, where homes weren’t manufactured so easily or with such mechanical precision.

 _Look forwards, not back,_ she reminds herself, wondering if she should risk heading back to the main village. The Deathdealer might kill her from afar, if they dared risk exposure to the sun, but more likely, Yelena will be caught out by the mortals as a loiterer in such an insular community if she stays here, rather than return. The vampires are rich in wealth and technology; if a woman of her description shows up on police radios, the Deathdealer will know.

Less comfortable than before, Yelena turns into what she quickly realises is a dead end. Immediately, she makes to turn around, only to catch sight of an odd shape on a nearby doorstep. Her heart pounds inside her chest as she identifies it as a baby.

_What the in the name of God above? It’s freezing!_

Rightfully concerned for the child, Yelena rushes over to the doorstep, crouching down to press her fingers to their neck. The child wriggles at the cold, a bloody scar like the jagged roots of a tree crusting on their forehead, streaking far into their hairline as a sluggish pulse beats against her fingers.

“Still alive,” Yelena mutters to herself, picking them up. _At least they’re in a blanket,_ she thinks, scowling. _A very thick blanket…_ “No matter, I’m not leaving you here,” she says to them firmly, looking to the house number. A bronze number _4_ greets her, polished to perfection and Yelena recalls the street name easily; her good memory is only one of the reasons she gets sent on international missions this often.

Abducting the young child, Yelena walks away with purpose to her step. She’s always had a soft spot for children and the Deathdealer won’t harm a child, should this chase end in either of their deaths. Considering who is rumoured to be following her, Yelena can at least be certain that the abandoned baby will be taken to the nearest mortal authority, should she die. It’s what she hopes to do herself… Well, it’s what she hopes to do if said Deathdealer gets a lovely, terminal sunburn.

 _Police radios,_ she reminds herself. She can’t afford the attention – not yet.

The working milkman waves silently in the usual British way, Yelena offering her own brief smile and nod, passing him without fuss. Her stomach begins to whine again, like it had yesterday. She’s had no time to eat or sleep – and little petty cash with which to pay for adequate accommodations or foodstuff. Lycan physiology does her a favour here, though with the full moon beginning to wane, she can feel everything stacking up. Yelena eyes up her temporary charge, for the first time noticing the letter tucked inside the tartan knit blanket, guessing that they’ll wake soon, making food a priority.

Quite handily, a postman on foot crosses the street, giving Yelena the chance to flag him down and spill a tale, having supposedly parked in front of a little shop and lost her way during her morning walk. The man in red hums and nods, quietly giving her directions to a _Spar,_ a chain Yelena recognises from Amsterdam, before returning to his rounds.

Breakfast consists of a small milk carton and a fresh apple pastry that she shares with the child when they wake, sat on a bench beside a war memorial. Red poppy wreaths are already set against it in preparation for November 11th. Yelena tries not to look at it, but the child starts reminding her of her old friend, Gustav. They both have sable hair and a pale complexion, though this child has green eyes where Gustav had brown.

“You’re a pretty young child,” she murmurs, tucking away the letter in her pocket while she untangles his arms from the blanket. Yelena thinks that the child must be a boy, though she doesn’t look forwards to seeing the ultimate proof when she has to change him. The _Spar_ only had food items in stock – not baby supplies. How foolish of the person who abandoned him not to think of such things; Yelena won’t even touch on leaving him in the November cold overnight.

“Ma?” The boy gabs, blinking sleepily, pastry flakes littering the sides of his mouth. Yelena brushes them away, half smiling, half grimacing as her fingers come away wet with saliva.

“Yelena,” she pronounces, asking, “What is your name, little one?”

But he in turn cries again, “Ma?” and Yelena purses her lips, unsure of how to proceed without a name. He might start crying if she can’t reassure him.

“Your mama is sleeping. Auntie Yelena is looking after you,” she murmurs, shushing him when he whines at her lie. Rubbing his back, Yelena decides that Little Whinging is too conspicuous – she must return to Greater Whinging, lest she be caught out.

The boy quiets during the walk through the field. He sips the milk when offered, though Yelena makes sure to slow down so it doesn’t spill all over his front, holding it for him when he tucks his arms back inside the blanket. He’s cold, she notices clearly. He’ll probably remain cold until she can outfit him in better clothes. Lucian won’t begrudge her the funds – not if she lives to explain, at least. Clothes and toddler things will be rather more expensive than the expected bare bones of her pretend hunt.

“Time to waste Auntie Yelena’s precious funds,” Yelena can’t help but coo when he makes the most adorable face, grumbling into her warm neck.

“Moony,” he mutters, grabbing onto her bite mark. The tiny grip, weak as it is, does make the silvery scar twinge oddly and Yelena pulls his spindly fingers away from it, producing a low rumble of warning. The boy barely reacts at all – maybe he had a dog in his previous home – but nevertheless, he pulls his hands away, grasping onto the collar of her jacket instead.

Some of the shops in Greater Whinging aren’t open, but she finds a large complex eventually called _Morrison’s_ and strikes gold. The boy grins at her and smacks his hands against the bars of the shopping trolley when she puts him in the children’s seat, gurgling mismatched words when she guesses at his sizes.

A rather nosy-looking woman with hazel eyes and cheeks over-red from blush stops by her cart at one point, holding her own child on a leash of some kind. Yelena isn’t so bothered by being stopped as she is amused by the concept of leashing an infant; two hundred years ago, a child who ran away from their caretaker in the markets of her homeland would get the strap for disobedience. Yelena imagines her younger self would rather see her father’s belt than be caught in public tied up like a farm animal.

“Your son?” the woman inquires, her tone setting off a warning bell in Yelena’s mind.

“My brother’s,” she replies smoothly, voice losing its previous warmth. “Eighteen months old. A darling, truly.”

“Hm,” the other woman frowns, eyebrow ticking, “He’s rather small for that age. Is your brother in the shop?”

“No.” Yelena says shortly, before speaking to her charge in Polish. _“Time to escape, sweet babe. This woman thinks I’ve kidnapped you, clearly.”_

The boy’s excitement at the strange language is obvious, especially when he attempts to copy her. His garbled _Polski_ is as adorable as his expression and Yelena’s true smile slips onto her face as she pushes the cart further down the aisle, away from the nosy woman who – correctly – thinks that the child is not Yelena’s.

If her situation was any different, Yelena would have already taken the child to either a hospital or police station – or even an orphanage, if those still exist. But her situation is still thus: the Deathdealer is out there, waiting for her to trip up, to mistakenly believe that she is safe while daylight pushes the vampire into retreat. The Deathdealer will be using their time wisely, perhaps even forgoing sleep in their attempt to track Yelena down. She cannot afford to make mistakes, not here. Yelena will admit to herself that leading the vampire into rural England was an error – it traps them both in the long game.

And unfortunately for the boy, he is now part of that, because Yelena cannot leave well enough alone. She should have left him on that doorstep.

With heavy thoughts clouding her mind, Yelena keeps a happy façade, entertaining the child and sharing a small box of blackberries – a treat, one that turns his fingers and mouth purple. Yelena manages to clean that up in the baby-changing room, when the smell finally leaks through the blanket. She disposes of it, along with the rest of his clothes, exchanging them for the newly-bought garments she’d picked and when they go outside, the cold barely bothers him at all.

Yelena spends the day amusing him, caught between the present and the past. Whenever he smiles, she sees her own son and the few temperate grumbles he makes when she assures him that his mother is sleeping harken back to her young sister, when Yelena told her much the same thing. She was the eldest of four back then, though her brothers worked and left Yelena alone to look after her sister, while their mother laid ill abed.

 _Tonight,_ she eventually decides, smoothing a thick lock of hair behind the boy’s ear, pulling down his hat to cover the cool cartilage. It’s unfair to involve the boy in her affairs and he needs a stable home – somewhere he’ll be expected, that won’t find it acceptable to leave him to freeze to death. Yelena knows not who to blame for this travesty, but whatever the cause, she has become his intermediary to a new life. Did they not even knock when they left him? Did those folk who lived in Number 4 see him lying there willingly close their door on him?

She digresses. It is Yelena who brought the vampire-lycan war to Surrey, so she must own up to that and face her hunter; and unfortunate as the idea is, if the boy shields her for just the single moment that the vampire spends hesitating, then he may just save her life.

In England, sunset comes early, dark by five o’clock. Yelena sits out in the open, on a bench near an alleyway perfect for confrontation. The boy lies against her, lightly napping. Just changing the position of her knee is enough to wake him, his eyelids fluttering as his mouth opens to emit a wordless noise of pleading. Honestly, he plays Yelena like a fiddle – she can’t deny him a thing, in this last hour.

_Last hour._

It sounds so final.

Maybe Yelena inherited her great-grandmother’s gift of sight after all, for the end seems like it’s coming for her, today. Maybe it’s why she thought of her son and her sister – of Gustav, from all those poppies laying him and his to rest. Perhaps, for her act of cruelty in bringing the child into this mess, she will be paid karmic justice. Yelena hopes not, but…

Behind her, she hears footsteps. In an empty street, it can only come from behind her, so Yelena stands, crooning to the baby in her arms as he fusses. She turns, catching the eye of the Deathdealer in the alleyway. She is like Yelena, but with darker hair and skin paler than the average mortal, giving her away for what she truly is.

“Vampire,” Yelena rumbles, reaching inside her to ready the change. The boy squirms in her arms.

“Lycan,” the Deathdealer replies. There is a gun at her waist, but it is the silver blade the length of her forearm that catches Yelena’s attention. A machete, if she’s identifying it correctly. _Danger!_ Her lupine brain warns her as it always does, her skin rippling with imminent change. “You didn’t have a child before.”

“And you didn’t have a conscience. All you Deathdealers are the same, except…you’re talking to me,” Yelena says, drawling, “It seems like you have a soul, after all, vampire.”

“Put the child down.”

The boy hiccoughs, crying loudly, as if feeling the tension. He bangs his tiny fists against Yelena’s shoulder, wriggling and Yelena takes her eyes off the vampire for one single second, looking at the child she’d rescued from a doorstep.

It happens in slow-motion.

Yelena looks and out of the corner of her eye, as the baby tears up, features morphing into a pink-red expression of distress, she sees movement. Black leather – and the flash of streetlight on silver. Yelena looks back just in time to see the ice-blue eyes of the Deathdealer, gravity pulling her closer and closer to the machete, until she can’t see it anymore.

Yelena dies where she stands - with no last thought at all.


	2. Chapter One

Selene cannot remember the last time she held a child. However, the decision that she makes – attacking so abruptly and not giving the lycan an iota of time to scheme further – compels her into stealing the baby from slackening arms as the lycan falls backwards onto the ground. With Selene’s machete stuck through her head, eyes losing their acute focus as the silver burns her accursed flesh, it is plainly obvious that the lycan woman is very, _very_ dead.

This leaves Selene with a child in her arms, who screams bloody murder until Selene firmly secures him against her chest, curling her arms around him as if he were one of her nieces. In mere seconds, the boy stops screaming, though he still weeps into her shoulder as he gets used to the new curvature, nose snuffling at her neck. His whimpers are distracting.

But Selene can’t think about the child right now, her mind still focused on the lycan. Only when she’s assured that the woman is dead, does she look around for witnesses and cameras, noting only one possible avenue of video surveillance. The lycan woman’s belongings on the bench are few, packed away in a single large grocery bag – supplies to look after the child, which does not bode well for the child’s family. Selene must dispose of all the evidence, but the clingy child in her arms, who has undoubtedly been stolen by the lycan for her own purposes, _is_ that evidence.

At such close proximity, Selene can smell the blood on his forehead. Uncomfortable at such temptation but worried still, the Deathdealer adjusts her grasp on the child so his face is visible, bright green eyes with a watery sheen reflecting the streetlight above as she inspects the horrific mark across his head.

 _Mutilation,_ Selene thinks, reaching with her thumb to press along an edge of the cut. The child doesn’t react and a baby should, she thinks. Even surface wounds bother children this young and such attentions should prompt him to do something – anything. But the boy is still. The wound is clean – the wound is also recent, Selene’s delicate touch disturbing the dried outer edges and causing a fresh globule to bloom. Thinking little of it, Selene wipes the tiny droplet away, bringing it to her mouth.

Selene nearly drops him.

Gagging, Selene spits as much of the trace liquid out of her mouth as she can, the taste of the boy’s blood worse than any lycan she has had the displeasure of imbibing.

“What in God’s name was that?” She asks herself, looking to the corpse at her feet. The lycan woman offers no answers. In her arms, the boy starts to complain again and Selene procrastinates, not sure who to tend to first: the boy or the body.

The child cries louder by the second, however, making the decision for her. Shifting the boy onto her hip, Selene tugs the machete out of the lycan woman’s head, wiping the blood on jeans. _I don’t understand modern fashions._ The thought flashes through her with a zing of exasperation. Denim was for farmers and workers who required high-duty uniforms. Someone in the coven could probably tell her why it’s become so popular in the recent decades.

Weapon retrieved, Selene grabs the plastic bags the lycan woman carted around, retreating to her hotel. She was lucky – there were only two in the whole of Greater Whinging and she didn’t even have to pay double for such short notice.

The boy dislikes the fast pace, but when settled on one of the twin beds, seems to accept his new lodgings. Selene hesitates over leaving him. It’s still early in the evening, despite the dark – she has left the lycan woman out in the open and already, could have been discovered by a passer-by.

 _I must go, if only briefly._ Decision made, Selene packs pillows and blankets around the child, so he doesn’t fall off the bed in his sleep, investigating the plastic bag. Selene finds clothes suitable for a child his size and food, the sort he could eat on his own if necessary. The lycan woman didn’t have allies nearby, so Selene doesn’t expect to be killed, but it eases her mind to know that the boy won’t starve in her absence.

As soon as she can, Selene returns to the scene of the crime with her borrowed car, dragging the body into the boot and covering it with a sheet stolen from the hotel. One last sweep of the area – including a check of the camera she noted, which is already disabled and therefore safe to ignore – ensures there is only a single puddle of blood left over, from where her wound leaked onto the pavement. Selene purses her lips. It’s not as if this is a major city – someone will see this and investigate.

Eventually, Selene sacrifices her time and money to buy a bottle of wine that looks similar in shade, dropping it on the pavement in a splash that sprinkles dregs on the leather of her coat. Worry for the child consumes her mind. He looked far too young to be left alone. _The body will wait,_ she thinks.

Driving back to the hotel and wishing there was a valet to fling the keys at, Selene hurries to her room, discovering the boy crawling up onto the wall of pillows – a wall so precarious that the surprise of her return causes him to break it with just a shift in balance. Selene uses her vampiric speed to catch him well before he falls, body still vertical as she draws him up by his armpits, green eyes meeting brown.

Though it would be simple to call them green – or to call her own brown. Selene knows from her own inspections in the mirror that her eyes are coloured a pleasant earth tone with olive, brown-gold sunflowers reaching out into green that in shadow – and from a distance – can easily be mistaken for plain, dark brown. So close to the boy as she is, Selene can see that the jewel tone of his green irises, brilliant in colour and unnaturally bright, like the skin of a venomous tree-frog or scales of a snake.

He is, quite certainly, unique.

It hits home then, that this chase into suburbia may not be so simple as she originally thought. Stumbling across the lycan as she did was pure luck – and combining this individual feature and the taste of his blood, like _death_ on her tongue, Selene can only assume that this boy was the true target all along. Maybe it is presumptuous, but this lycan was _prepared._ She gathered all the things she would need to care for a child temporarily – enough, Selene believes, to smuggle him across the English Channel into the heart of Europe.

“Who are you?” she asks him, not expecting an answer. _Too young,_ she thinks. Something that feels like a memory reminds her of these things, something from long ago that makes her heart ache for her sister, like anything to do with children always has.

Selene gathers him better in her arms, letting him reach up to tangle his tiny hands in her hair. It grounds her in the present and keeps him distracted, to boot, while she uses the room’s phone, calling Kahn for advice. It rings for a long time after being connected internationally, but eventually, she reaches one of Kahn’s lieutenants.

_“Ördögház basement line.”_

“Get me Kahn. It’s Selene. Tell him there’s been a complication.” Sitting down tentatively, the cord stretching between the bed and the wall, Selene balances the boy on her lap, a thread of uncertainty winding through her as he sits quietly. If he makes a noise, there will be questions and though she makes to tell Kahn everything, the idea of any other vampire knowing she holds custody of a child, spreading rumours and gossip, makes her uneasy. Her reputation is everything and vampire memory is long – they _will_ remember.

The other vampire gives over the phone to Kahn a few minutes later, in which time Selene half-heartedly listens to the crackling background noise, trying to ascertain what’s going on. There isn’t much to hear, on this awful line.

_“Selene? What’s happened?”_

“I found my target, but there has been an unexpected change to the usual order of things.”

 _“Go on,”_ he says, waiting.

Selene pauses to hold the phone away from her ear momentarily, having felt a tug on the rubber-coated cord, the boy investigating where he shouldn’t. “No,” she says, before one-handedly placing him on the floor by her feet, watching him as he grasps at her long coat, standing up shakily.

Bringing the phone back to her ear, Selene says, “The lycan had a child. Recently abducted and the product of some strange experiment, I suspect. He has a wound on his forehead. I tasted his blood, Kahn – you won’t believe me when I say it tasted worse than any lycan’s.”

_“You’re right, I don’t. Do you know where it came from?”_

“Negative,” she replies, frowning as he again tries to grab at the phone cord. “Stop that,” she instructs sternly, taking one of his reaching hands in her own. “I’m busy.”

_“Selene?”_

“Sorry. He’s quite young and adventurous.” The boy proves this again by reaching into her jacket, aiming for one of her silver throwing stars. Selene hurries to press the handset between her neck and shoulder awkwardly, so as to take his wrist. Blowing out a puff of air in consternation, she says to Kahn, “Also, he seems to like shiny things.”

 _“Selene,”_ Kahn starts and _oh,_ Selene already doesn’t like the undercurrent of laughter in his voice. _“Are you being beaten by a toddler?”_

“I suspect he’s little over a year old, so no, not a toddler,” she admits, the phone falling from her neck as he becomes wily, pulling at her grip and kicking out, almost jumping in place to do so. Frustrated, Selene picks him up and puts him on her lap again, this time lying facedown away from the phone, so she can pick it up and not have to worry about anything more than his wriggling. “Sorry, did you say anything?”

_“The child giving you trouble?”_

“Yes,” Selene says, testy. “I’ll do a follow-up on his family, but the lycans wanted him for something, Kahn, I’m sure of it.”

 _“Bring him to Budapest straight away. We’ll sort it out from there and return him in time, once we know he’s safe,”_ says Kahn, always the voice of reason. _“No need to be implicated in anything, if the lycan made a mess. I’ll get the London Office to poke around and make up the paperwork to get him overseas. If border agents ask, you’re his mother.”_

“Understood,” Selene replies, forcing down the twinge of discomfort at being named a mother.

_“Do you know his name?”_

“No.”

 _“Make one up,”_ Kahn instructs, tone brooking no argument, _“and change your clothes. Money makes the world go ‘round, but one suspicious mortal could make this whole thing collapse.”_

“What are you blathering on about?” She asks crossly, the boy starting to whine in complaint. Selene attempts to hold the phone in the crook of her neck again, placing him on the floor again. If she wasn’t on the phone, she’d be able to do this better, Selene is sure.

Kahn’s sigh is loud enough to be heard even over the international connection. _“You don’t exactly fit the new mother profile, Selene. You know what? Forget it. Just remember: he’s your son, now.”_

“I got that – just tell me what you mean about not fitting in.”

 _“I’ll explain later,”_ he brushes her off, asking _“Where are you, anyway?”_

“Greater Whinging, Surrey. A banal little village where nothing ever happens. The lycan retrieved the child during the daytime, so her crime may have yet gone unnoticed.”

But Kahn swears. _“They could have gone from one end of the country to the other in that time. That boy might not even be from Surrey. Get to London tonight, Selene. I’ll have you on a plane home tomorrow.”_

“Alright. Wish me luck.”

_“Good luck, Selene – and don’t forget to feed your new son.”_

Scoffing at Kahn’s teasing, the Deathdealer reaches across the gap to place the phone on it’s wall-mounted cradle, looking down when she feels weight on her leg. The boy doesn’t look hungry, but who knows whether the lycan fed him a proper meal or not.

“You,” she says to him, “are going to be quite the bother.” He gurgles, as if agreeing and Selene sighs, reaching down to hold his hands, keeping him steady on his feet as she turns him around to walk forwards past the beds. He plays along happily, burbling and tripping over his own feet. Once they reach the bed covered in pillows, she drags him up into the broken pen, removing his shoes for the first time, along with the red bobbled hat on his head. Almost immediately, a _dreadful_ mess of curls escapes, briefly stunning Selene with their intensity.

The boy gurgles again.

Selene shakes her head, before divesting him of the rest of his clothes, sans the wet pull-up that stinks up the room in an instant. The vampire balks, knowing that her sense of smell is one of her lesser traits, worse than a mortal’s. How bad must it be, if _she_ thinks it smells awful?

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, thankful for the full bath in the bathroom instead of just a shower. An hour later, clothes partly drenched from all the splashing he’d done, Selene regrets not just changing the nappy for a clean one.

Wrapping him in a large cream towel, Selene briefly understands why people might want children, the urge to be a mother stirring strongly in her gut at seeing his smiling face under the towel. The large wound on the right side of his forehead branches up like lightning, far into his hairline and Selene feels a surge of anger and upset at the sight of it. Who would mutilate a child so? It’s too awful to have been an accident.

The boy – who needs a name, Selene reminds herself – is a happy child, though. The scar doesn’t detract from his smile or his eyes, so _alive_ with energy. She finds herself smiling back at him, sitting down on the floor as she dries him off, making faces just so she can hear him laugh again. It’s a glorious sound – Selene doesn’t think she could ever get tired of it.

“What should your name be?” she asks him, again, not expecting an answer. Tousling his hair gently, Selene’s voice just becomes just as soft. “We’re in England, you know. The myth of King Arthur is one of my favourite. How does ‘Arthur’ sound? I could call you Percival or Merlin…” Selene hums, surprised that she finds it so easy to name him. To her, he _looks_ like an Arthur, a pretty boy not yet king.

The newly-named Arthur tilts his head in recognition, words distorted. _“Loddy Me’lin!”_ He screeches in joy, as if he’s just said something funny and Selene’s eyes crinkle. Tweaking his nose, she says to him, “Your name is Arthur, little prince. Can you say ‘Arthur’?”

_“Atha!”_

“Good enough,” she hums, giving into the reflex to kiss his cheek, breathing in the smell of fresh soap, uncaring of the damp on her cheek. He already soaked her with his splashing.

She feeds him soon after, happy to find dregs to be drunk in a lukewarm carton of milk before he starts to weigh heavy against her, falling asleep in the crook of her arms. Once trapped in slumber – and much easier to handle than when awake – Selene takes him out to her car, paying the hotel staff to part with a great deal of pillows and blankets so she can cushion him in the passenger side footwell. Frankly, she would rather have a car seat or even a basket, but at this time of night, she barely has enough time to get petrol, despite being less than an hour’s drive from the edge of London.

The London Office, as Kahn calls it, is a street barred from mortals where a lot of houses owned by the Coven are built. Visiting members of the Coven can lay temporary claim to lodging there, whenever they deign to visit their island cousins; not many of the British vampires leave their individual sects, littered throughout Queen Elizabeth’s domain in solitude, leaving most of the London Office empty. That does not mean, however, that the London Office is abandoned – far from it, in fact.

Upon arriving in Crouch End, an area due north of City of London proper, Selene finds a skeleton crew manning the gates at either end of the street, letting her into the underground parking garage when she lowers her window. A flash of fangs gains her entry without comment, a hunched degenerate in a poorly-fitting suit gesturing for her to follow him up a set of stairs when she pulls into a parking space. When his eyes lock onto Arthur for just a second too long, Selene hisses at him, disgusted at the startled jump that gets her.

“That’s the boy?” He asks, rushing, “Master Kahn was insistent I ready documentation-”

“His name is Arthur,” Selene interrupts, relieved when the other vampire – and what a slimy vampire he makes – opens a door only two flights up. Gliding past him, Selene find herself in a familiar sort of room, the windows shuttered and guns hung on the far wall. Evidence of a forger lies on a nearby desk of steel, spotlight trained on pieces of paper. The other vampire scurries over, gesturing for her to follow and then, to show him the boy.

In her arms, Arthur is dead to the world and Selene dislikes moving his head from her shoulder. He whimpers in his sleep as she turns him away from her warmth, letting the forger get a good look at him.

“Not very old,” he mutters, losing his fear of her as the seconds tick by, “We’ll have to adjust the dates.”

“Is he getting a passport?” Selene asks.

“No. He goes on yours as an accompanying infant, but you came here without him – getting out of the country is your problem, right now. Any trouble, then you’ll need to produce a birth certificate. We’re going on the safe side and fabricating a full, authentic background, which would take me a few days normally,” he says, sounding sour. “But orders are orders.”

“Orders _are_ orders,” Selene repeats, with a different emphasis than the forger. She sees him swallow his words, curling his head nearer to the bench as he mutters to himself. She distracts herself from matters by focusing on Arthur, cradling him against her and brushing her hand through his hair. He sleeps like a rock – which will be a challenge to change, considering her natural aversion to daylight. Selene winces at the very idea of changing his habits so suddenly. _It’ll be a nightmare._

Selene stays with him all night, slowly bracing herself for the horror to come when she wakes him at midnight, after only a few hours worth of sleep. The forger gives her a private room at that point, his crying and screeching distracting him.

 _How do you think I feel?_ Selene asks in the privacy of her mind. She’s irritated herself – but for the sake of her health, she has to get this child sleeping through the day, like her and the rest of the Coven. If she takes a perverse pleasure relishing how it frustrates the English vampire, then that is simply the truth of it.

The next day, however, it seems that the forger has taken his own sort of revenge.

“You had him out of wedlock,” he tells her, barely suppressing his smirk. “Your father sent him to live with his brother in Hull when he was a newborn and you’ve come back to get him, as an independent woman.”

Selene grits her teeth at the insult, but endeavours to ignore it. “And his documents?”

“Born in Budapest on the twentieth of July at three in the morning, with dual nationality through his English grandfather. He was documented as a citizen in both countries within a week of birth. Here.” He hands her a thin packet, eyeing the tired and extremely grumpy baby with menace. Arthur had made it to dawn, then slept to two pm – waking half the street well before sunset. Selene has already been in receipt of several angry vampires’ threats, if she didn’t shut him up; they only backed off when she threatened to shoot them.

Pansies.

“We’ve already dealt with your lycan in the trunk. There’s a private charter straight to Hungary from Heathrow with one of our pilots, waiting to lift off at nine,” he tells her, before shooing her rudely. Selene leaves him one last dirty look before leaving – this time with a car seat in hand.

Arthur dislikes flying, she finds, up until she gets him to look out the windows into the darkened sky. He stares at the stars until he falls asleep, napping half the flight away in his own chair, giving Selene a chance to stretch her legs and talk to the pilot about his recent endeavours.

“The Lady Amelia is in Constantinople, right now,” he informs her, stage-whispering. In comparison to the forger, the pilot is a gleeful sort of vampire, who loves his work and all the people he meets through it.

“It’s called Istanbul, now,” Selene replies.

“I know,” he laughs, “but it’ll change again, one day and I always liked calling it Constantinople the best. Names change all the time. São Salvador is called M’banza-Kongo, now and Santa Domingo is back to being called Santa Domingo-”

He makes for interesting conversation, at least. Informative. Selene wasn’t aware that Amelia was so close – the Elder had been making a point of increasing their international holdings in the aftermath of each World War. Rumours had been going around, questioning Markus’ – and indeed, later, Viktor’s – ability to adapt to such a changed world. Technology is improving by leaps and bounds, only speeding up as the years go by.

 _You barely saw the beginning of bombs, in comparison to what they are now, Viktor,_ thinks Selene to her sleeping sire. _I fear for Markus. We all hope that Amelia will build your shared empire in a way that will make the transition easier than it ever was before._ She remembers Viktor’s distaste at returning to rest, just when the Russians began to lose control of their Empire. He will wake up in one hundred and nineteen years and discover a new world, filled with technology in which it is becoming increasingly difficult to hide from.

_Bless you, Lady Amelia, in all your travels._

When the plane lands in Budapest, Selene breathes in the familiar air and takes a moment to appreciate her home. Arthur is less pleased, grumbling and being altogether… _snippy,_ when Selene tries to direct his attention to the city lights. Customs on the other end is the first time she has trouble, the Hungarian border agent frowning at her new addition on her passport. Selene keeps a cool composure, adjusting Arthur on her hip and waiting in a deliberately impatient manner.

_The Brits didn’t even care. Why do you?_

But the border agent lets her through and Selene drags along what little luggage she possesses, Arthur clinging to her side like a limpet. It’s when he mumbles the word _Dada_ into her ear that Selene’s mood finally drops to a new low. The single bright spot is the car she’s been given, a silver Porsche which has already had a child car seat installed in the back seat, though Arthur doesn’t realise he’s being imprisoned in it until Selene has shut the door on him.

In truth, perhaps she should have made sure he was at least mildly content before bringing him back to the Manor.

“That is one unhappy baby,” says Kahn, standing back as Selene wrangles the screaming child out of the garage through the training level. “I take it all back.”

“I would say thank-you, but-” Arthur grabs onto her hair and doesn’t let go. Selene thinks this is perhaps more painful than any lycan’s claws. Hissing with full teeth, Selene stalks to the centre mat, setting him down on the floor to tantrum alone. Some of her hair is still trapped in his fingers when she steps away.

Kahn comes to stand beside her, crossing his arms slowly. “So…”

“His blood tastes like absolute death,” she says flatly, watching Arthur stop screaming, his cheeks wet with tears and his chin wobbling visibly. Selene’s anger dies at the sight, apology filling the space in her chest as she kneels down in front of him. “Quiet down, little one. Come here.” She opens her arms part of the way and just the _motion_ has Arthur flinging himself in her direction, crying at full-force. Her only consolation is that he’s not screaming anymore, though this isn’t much better. She has no idea why he’s so upset, except perhaps stress.

“I am _never_ having one of those,” Kahn says in a bleak manner, before joining her on the floor. “Any reason why you didn’t bandage his forehead?”

“I didn’t want to touch it – and I don’t know much first aid, in any case.” Selene explains distractedly, shushing Arthur and stroking his head in a soothing manner. Doing so gives Kahn the chance to see the full extent of the damage, a quiet hiss at the sight confirming to Selene that it isn’t something that she could have dealt with.

“He’ll need a medic. That will scar.”

“I think it’s some kind of ritual mark. It’s too purposeful.”

“I disagree,” Kahn fights, gesturing along the ragged edge over his ear. “It’s like he’s been hit with something. It glanced off, whatever the fuck it was, but whomever tried to do this was aiming at him, definitely.”

Selene frowns, struggling to see how something so… _detailed_ could inflict so much damage. She would have guessed a knife, maybe, or glass.

“He’s lucky,” her superior mutters, gesturing to the cut part of his eyebrow. “Any lower and he would have lost an eye. Probably an ear too, on the slip sideways.” Kahn reaches to touch it purposefully and Selene readies Arthur against his reaction as he tastes the blood.

The words that escape Kahn as he starts spitting are filthy and luckily, in a mixture of old Ottoman Turkish and Arabic. Unless Arthur comes from a multicultural background, he won’t recognise any of the words Kahn says – even Selene is having trouble parsing half of what he’s saying, to be completely honest.

Eventually, he contains himself, but not until after snapping at a grunt to clean up the mess he made. Kahn looks at her with dark eyes, voice sharp as he says, “That’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever tasted in all my life and that includes crab.”

Selene assumes he thinks crab tastes like hell and nods, still stroking Arthur’s head. He’s gone quiet, now and with his body plastered to hers, Selene doesn’t even mind the looks the three of them are getting.

“What is he?” Kahn asks, looking at the boy. “He’s so young.”

“Could he have been born like this?” Selene replies with a question of her own, knowing some of their history. The Corvinus brothers were known to have another sibling, who walked the mortal path – what if this boy is one of them, bitten by another sort of creature? What if – a worse thought – the lycans had known? Was that why the lycan woman had him?

Kahn shakes his head. “This is bigger than us. We can’t figure this out alone.” He offers her a hand, Selene hauling herself up as Arthur wraps his arms even tighter than before around her neck, to the point where she has to stretch her neck in a strange direction to see over his shoulders.

“We’re going to Kraven,” she guesses, disliking that option.

“And then to Amelia, if he hasn’t any answers for us.” Kahn walks with her to the doors, striding alongside her with a glare for anyone that look at them oddly for the boy. Arthur still sniffles and weeps, mumbling words that, to Selene, seem vaguely familiar now – patterned.

 _Is he saying someone’s names?_ She thinks guiltily, kissing his cheek in a comforting manner that feels possessive. Like she’s promising something. Selene doesn’t know what that promise is, but she knows it’s to Arthur and also, to herself.

Kahn glances at her, eyes alight with unsaid commentary. Selene almost wants him to say it.

“Kraven won’t like this,” she says unnecessarily.

The Quartermaster of Ördögház hums lowly, flexing his arms as they traverse the staircase in lieu of the elevator, asking her, “Then why not leave him? Or kill him?”

Selene recoils. “Kahn!”

“Because those aren’t options,” he answers his own questions, continuing. “Kraven knows that. He’ll have to deal with it, even if he doesn’t like it. You’re one of our best, Selene and God knows he wants you by his side. We’ll find out today if that stretches so far as to accept a mortal child.”

“Kahn,” Selene repeats in a more exasperated voice, rolling her eyes. Her friend smiles slightly.

“Congratulations on parenthood, by the way.”

“I’m not his mother.”

“The paperwork says you are,” he says happily, holding open the doors to the main plaza for her. Selene scoffs.

The main plaza is an open area at the base of the grand staircase, with crystal chandeliers and chaise lounges by the dozen. A round table of crystal goblets, champagne flutes and martini glasses full of blood in the centre lies open for perusal. In his usual place, Kraven sits with his attendants and followers, Erika settled under his arm; Kraven must be in a good mood, if he’s entertaining her suit.

Upon her entrance, there are a few short glances that quickly become double-takes as Coven members recognise what sort of charge she holds, Arthur’s whimpers a new, discordant sound in the chatter of the party. Kraven himself stiffens at the sight of her, pulling away from Erika as he stands, leaving her alone on his chosen settee.

“What is this?” He demands an answer, stalking forwards. Selene meets him halfway, mentally donning her armour as Kahn joins her from behind. Kraven gets close – too close, as usual – but rears back a short distance upon realising it would put him within grabbing distance of Arthur. He shies away from them. “You’d better have a good answer for this, Selene.”

“I do.” Selene pushes aside her low opinion of Viktor’s chosen regent, holding out her hand for his. After the longest of moments, Kraven eyeing her suspiciously, he places his own in hers. Selene ignores the feeling of his skin, guiding it to Arthur’s forehead, his nails easily scraping open the scar. Kahn makes a noise of unrest, but this has to be done.

When Selene releases his hand, Kraven briefly looks at the blood on his fingertips, then does the expected: tasting it. The way he recoils is almost enough to make her smile, if not for the murderous expression that flashes across his face.

“What the _hell_ is that monster?” He hisses, clenching his fists. To his credit, he doesn’t spit, but an extremely sour look remains, his throat spasming. Selene will give Kraven that.

“The lycan I was tracking abducted him, most likely for the same reason. We’ve never seen this before.” Selene tells him, before informing him, “Amelia is in Istanbul. It would not be out of her way to visit.”

Kraven points at her, glaring with vitriol, presumably for her steady-eyed request for Amelia. “Keep that _thing_ away from the Coven. It doesn’t leave your rooms. Did you give Kahn your full report?” He looks to the quartermaster, who shakes his head.

“Not much to say, other than the obvious. She killed the lycan, but it had eight hours of daylight to kill before that. The London Office are doing the follow-up.”

“Keep me updated,” he orders, riled. Selene feels a justified smugness at being the one to drag down his good mood. He looks at her again, glowering. “If that brat causes any trouble, it’s gone.”

“His name is Arthur,” Selene says, “You can use it.”

Kraven rolls his eyes and Selene watches as he returns to his followers, refusing Erika’s advances as he settles in to brood, lowering the overall feel of the evening’s party.

“You’d better go to your rooms,” murmurs Kahn. “I’ll arrange for mortal food to be brought up. And a cot. What does a baby even need?”

“I’ll make you a list,” Selene tells him, leaning her chin on Arthur’s head, inhaling the scent of his hair. Basic shampoo from the hotel and that singular smell of _mortal,_ though Selene knows she’s missing something – her vampire sense of smell dull compared to when she was human. Those subtle scents are lost on her and she _craves_ them, here and now.

Watching her closely, Kahn says in a quiet voice, “Motherhood suits you, Selene.”

“I’m a Deathdealer,” she replies, reluctant. “I am trained to exterminate lycans, not care for babies.”

“You can have more than one side to you,” Kahn argues, before accompanying her up the grand staircase, further into the Manor. They walk in silence all the way to her rooms, Kahn stopping in the doorway as Selene struggles over whether to put Arthur down or not. She likes holding him. Kahn raises his voice. “Kraven _will_ call Amelia. You were right to bring her up.”

“What will she think of all this?” Selene asks, unsure. Someone has already brought up her belongings from the car – they even left a drawer open to show Arthur’s unpacked belongings.

“I’m not sure. Lady Amelia is an Elder,” Kahn guesses, “She could have seen this before. We don’t know. Hopefully, the London Office will have more for us in time.”

“Hopefully,” Selene repeats, before Kahn leaves, shutting the door behind him. Arthur has settled, by this point and she regrets not being able to keep him happy, throughout this undoubtedly traumatic period he’s going through.

“Dada,” he mumbles against her neck. “Pad’it. Mama.”

“Hush, little prince,” Selene murmurs in return, kissing his head and swaying from side to side oh-so gently. “I am here. Be calm. I will care for you – feed you and watch over you, until it is time for you to leave. Shh…”

And in the depths of Ördögház, a vampire begins to love a mortal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've been having an Underworld marathon at my mums, since we finished helping her move house a couple of days ago and I've only ever watched the first Underworld before, so seeing more of them is really fun. By the end I was itching to write fic and I started browsing the various archives and as expected, most of what little content we have is on FFN - though there are some obvious standouts on AO3 and probably LJ, though I've never been able to navigate that. I'm too young to know my way around there, unfortunately :P
> 
> I'm going to be watching Rise of the Lycans tonight, so expect some more backstory to show up, sprinkled throughout, but I've already plotted out most of this fic from post-Halloween of 1981, all the way to sixth year/1996 so far.
> 
> There will definitely be some changes to the whole Underworld series as well, but expect more Amelia - because her death was a capital letter Waste - and some long, ambling chapters like this one. I won't be keeping this in a singular POV, like some of my other fics, but most should just be one character per chapter, most likely Selene, Harry or Amelia herself.
> 
> I love comments - dialogues are fun! Ask any question you like and I'll probably answer them within a day or two!


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I binge-watched the rest of the series and by fricking god, do I have [notes](https://wearethewitches.tumblr.com/post/626471610494418944/so-i-finished-watching-the-entire-underworld) \- most of it, complaints about Blood Wars, though it's still a badass movie. So, FYI, expect some canon from that movie to be twisted, because they broke their own rules with that last sequel and Amelia deserves better.
> 
> And oh, look at that - it's time for Amelia's debut.

It is unusual for Kraven to contact her.

Amelia has had the so-called ‘privilege’ of being contacted by Viktor’s newest regent only thrice in the last century of her reign. The first was during the Great War, in 1916, when the Austria-Hungary Empire had begun conscripting soldiers; they had come to Viktor’s mansion and attempted to make away with over a dozen vampires. A similar situation in World War II forced Kraven to leave his subjects in her hands – or rather, the hands of her council – while he and ten others played along, escaping in the night and living in exile until 1946. Upon his return, he once again had to call, asking her blessing to regain his legitimacy as regent.

Disliking him personally, however, is no reason to deny him his requests. For all his animosity towards anyone not Viktor, Kraven is an able regent and has adapted better to modern times than others Amelia could name. So when he contacts her council, asking for her immediate return to Hungary, Amelia obliges, holding her suspicion at bay when he refuses to answer why.

Handing over her business to Faiza is an easy task, barring her disgruntlement at not being the one to organise their holdings in Turkey. Delegation has never been one of her strengths, though she will bend when it comes to the safety of the Coven. In the last century alone, however, the leaps and bounds towards equality have given Amelia the chance to regain her independence, previously relying on her male council members to represent her interests. Had there been one thing to name that she hated most upon Awakening, it was the gall of men to deny any women their rightful place if they had the strength to seek it.

Her escort to Ördögház, of course, is silent as to her purpose. The tension mounts every minute Amelia does not know, though the timing of this summons is suspicious. It has been merely a week since All Hallows Eve and _certain_ aspects of the world have been rejoicing – it would not be unlikely that her summons is to do with the reason why.

Warlocks have always been so careful to keep their world secret; Amelia dislikes the idea of having to explain them to an ignorant regent.

An hour from sunrise, she enters Viktor’s home, a mansion only built some hundred and seventy years prior. She remembers waking there – it’s a fortress of some renown, even to the militaries of the world. Amelia has spent good money making mortals turn a blind eye. Therefore, the old-fashioned décor is a disappointment, though Amelia knows that one reason why Viktor named Kraven his regent instead of Shamira was because of his frugal spending habits.

Still. Amelia prefers a little more colour than this.

“Lady Amelia,” Kraven kneels, followed by the rest of the Eastern Coven. “I welcome you.”

“Rise,” Amelia instructs, waiting until they had all done so before asking, “Why am I here, Kraven?”

The dark-eyes man hesitates, then gestures to the grand staircase. “Seeing is believing. Our… _guest,”_ he says, voice twisting at the word ‘guest’, like it’s one he’d rather not use, “will be sleeping soon.”

“Show me,” she heads to the stair, allowing Kraven to walk by her side. Intrigued as to why their ‘guest’ should interest her, Amelia reserves judgement, sensing Kraven’s tense disposition. Most likely, he has no idea how she’ll react and rightly so – Amelia may prefer action, but when it comes to politics, even Viktor is stumped on occasion by her poker face. Markus is a different story, but that’s Markus.

Oh, how difficult it will be to explain to him the new complexities of the world. If he had not lived during the inventions of the most basic technologies, Amelia would be afraid for him.

Traversing the mansion, Amelia hears music, her sensitive ears picking up the strings of a guitar and a voice singing in French. Kraven’s shoulders only get tighter as they approach a wide set of doors.

“…this is Selene’s room,” Amelia notes, intrigued, opening the door moments after Kraven nods. The music remains, but across the room, Amelia sees Sonja’s replacement – and in her arms, a baby.

It is an image that will stay with her, she thinks, as Selene’s peaceful morning is interrupted, her attention torn away from the child in her arms to Amelia in the doorway, Kraven at her shoulder. The record goes on playing and Amelia recognises the voice.

“Anne Sylvestre?” She queries, looking away as Selene adjusts to her presence. Unlike Viktor, Amelia prefers a…sideways approach. In her jewels and grey Giorgio Armani suit, she and Selene are opposites, Amelia radiating power while Selene stands timid with the child. Brute force never gets her anywhere except in a fight and it’s been a long time since Amelia _really_ trained - so, sideways it is.

Selene kneels, lowering her head. “I am honoured by your presence.”

“Rise,” says Amelia, before walking over to the record player. She doesn’t turn it off, but does lower the volume as she orders Kraven to leave them. “Return to your people, Kraven.”

She sees the looks he sends her before bowing. “My lady.” He backs away and her guards close the doors behind him, Josef heading straight to the windows and Selene’s ensuite to ensure there are no surprises waiting.

“Lady Amelia, we didn’t expect you so soon,” Selene says, her nerves obvious. Amelia side-eyes the child in her arms – a mortal, clearly. “My acquisition of Arthur was unintentional, but enlightening as to a new lycan conspiracy.”

_Lycans. Of course._ Amelia struggles not to sigh. “Explain from the beginning,” she instructs, voice low as she turns to watch Selene explain.

Listening to her story, Amelia also watches. The mortal child, named ‘Arthur’ by Selene herself, is unexpectedly familiar in appearance and it does not take long for Amelia to remember where she knows his face from. _The Boy-Who-Lived,_ she thinks, deciding not to interrupt Selene’s tale. His abduction by lycan forces is foreboding, implying much about the state of affairs of lycans and their warlock brethren; has a new alliance formed?

“The London Office has since resolved their investigation,” Selene finishes, “and have come up with nothing. There has not been any report about a missing child since that night.”

“There wouldn’t be,” Amelia replies, eventually. Stepping forwards, she enters Selene’s space so as to inspect the already infamous scar – she hadn’t realised it was so vast, when she saw the picture in the Turkish warlocks’ newspaper. “This is boy is famous,” she informs Viktor’s surrogate daughter, “and I know of him, for certain.”

“How, milady?” Selene frowns, guarding him closer than ever. _Already attached,_ Amelia thinks with a hum.

“You will be briefed in time,” she says, forming a plan in her mind. “What do you remember of the warlock societies?”

Selene blanches, answering her question. Amelia smiles wryly.

“Yes, it is _that_ kind of situation.”

“Viktor banned us from interacting with them,” says Selene, voice barely audible. Dark hair falls over her face as she looks down, expression fragile as she asks, “What do we have to do?”

“Have to do? Nothing, Selene. He came to us through the lycans – we are not interfering with warlock business by caring for him.” Amelia feels a thin vein of triumph, a great idea forming in the depths of her mind as she realises the implications of this.

Witches, wizards, warlocks – whatever they call themselves nowadays – have always been a thorn in the side of the Coven. Their governments always attempt to include vampires in their laws and statutes; all three Elders have fought against them, if only by simple refusal to bend. It eventually came to be known as the Great Treaty of Vampires and Warlocks, throughout the breadth of Europe, though there was minimal formal engagement. Vampires stay out of warlock business and in return, warlocks stay far, far away from the Coven.

_This is the key to negotiating power among the warlocks,_ Amelia thinks, smiling with all her canines on view. In Selene’s arms, the boy doesn’t even flinch, most likely from a childhood full of magical creatures. Sharp teeth do not scare him and for that, Amelia is glad.

“We will keep him,” she says. “He will be my ward and your charge. Who better to protect him than a Deathdealer?”

“Protect him? Protect him from who? The warlocks?”

Amelia is sharp as she reminds her, “This boy is famous. On All Hallows Eve, he purportedly felled a villain of great evil in warlock society and I would not put it past his followers to seek revenge. The lycans already found him, whatever their purpose.”

“Arthur is my _son,”_ Selene replies so quickly, even she seems surprised. “He- I’ll protect him. Always.”

_My ward,_ Amelia thinks, _and Selene’s son._

Excellent.

She joins the party downstairs for the last hour of dark after a wardrobe change, dressing in a slinky velvet red number with long sleeves and a dipping back, decked with diamonds. A whisper to Desmona has her old friend slipping away to explain the complexity of warlock societies to Selene at her own discretion. It is a new direction in vampiric politics, but one desperately needed; like vampires, warlocks would soon have to worry about modern technology and conveniences and Amelia wants to _use_ that.

And if she has the living icon that is the Boy-Who-Lived, famous across the entire European continent, under her thumb and even _loving_ her, the deals to come will only seem that much sweeter.

Kraven only brings up the child when the Coven has nearly fully dispersed, the shutters closed and her fellow council members waiting for her cue to leave.

“What are your thoughts on the mongrel?” He asks, only seeing what he wants to. Amelia trusts he’s only referring to his blood – something she refuses to taste until she has to.

“I think,” she croons, smile full of warning as she looks him in the eyes, “that you should be kinder to my ward, Kraven.”

The regent revolts. “Ward, my lady? Why?”

“Leverage. Update yourself on the state of warlocks in Britain, Kraven, before you embarrass yourself further.” Tired from politicking today, Amelia wordlessly dismisses herself and her party, heading to her usual quarters in Viktor’s mansion.

“The warlocks?” Edgar questions on the journey up.

“I possess a ward, by the name of Aemilius Artúr,” she tells her council, affording the boy her name as is his right. She will have to inform Selene – but that will be a task for tomorrow. “Otherwise known as Harry Potter.”

Surprise ripples through her companions, from Edgar’s sharp breath of realisation to Maia’s low hum of appreciation. Antelmo is as dramatic as usual, letting out a bark of laughter and rubbing his hands together, saying appreciative things under his breath.

Amused, Amelia glances back and teases, “All things in good time, my friend, calm yourself. The boy isn’t even walking, yet.”

“But he will in time – and we have all the time in the world,” replies Antelmo, though there is a flicker of apprehension at his words, because they _don’t._ They only have nineteen years left until Amelia is once again put to rest, continuing the Chain. Those precious few days after Markus’ Awakening will be Amelia’s last chance to pass on her duties – and Markus never was good with politics.

Spirits dipping, Amelia finds her rooms, then settles in till the sun sets as it always does. Sometimes, she wonders what the sun looks like. She’s forgotten how it looks in the sky, far above them all, the ever-present guardian of the world.

The next evening, at midnight, she orders Selene to join her in a private parlour with the child. When the Deathdealer arrives, young Arthur on her hip, Amelia informs her of the changes she’s ordered in the mortal world.

“Aemilius Artúr will be his name, here in Hungary,” she says, faux-investigating the portfolio Kraven’s quartermaster provided her, where it lies splayed out beside her on the settee. “I approve of the cover-story the London Office proposed, though I have tweaked certain aspects.”

Selene nods her head. “May I ask what they were, my lady?” she asks politely. There is zero submission to her.

Watching the Deathdealer for a long, drawn-out minute – making the woman proverbially sweat for her answer, even as she becomes distracted by Arthur – Amelia finally says to her, “You’re quite…brazen. Do you know that?”

“It may have come up,” she replies, voice holding the barest hint of smugness as she looks, briefly, at Amelia with a flash of warm mischief in her eyes.

Amelia allows herself the smallest of smiles in reply. “I like it,” she says, before answering her question. “The fake father provided to you in Viktor’s image will fit, but this mystery uncle will not. Markus will Awaken in the new millennium and I will protect him, as we Elders do for each other. Markus, therefore, will be your brother in the eyes of the law, allowing Arthur to become his nephew on paper, in preparation for his Awakening.”

“An understandable decision.”

“Yes, it is.” Gesturing for Selene to approach, Amelia shifts the papers, not at all surprised by Selene’s hesitance to join her on the settee. It takes a point look for Selene to carefully sit down, Arthur already looking in Amelia’s direction. The Elder orders, “Give him to me.”

Selene hesitates for longer than a moment. _Brazen_ turns to _disobedient_ in her mind, but Amelia doesn’t react, only waiting. The attitude is _fresh,_ especially coming from a New World vampire. When she finally hands the boy over, Amelia gathers him on her lap, inspecting his arms and hands, forgiving him for tangling his tiny fingers in her jewel-encrusted bracelets.

“Let go,” she instructs him, not unkindly. Arthur looks at her pleadingly, spitting nonsense words, but Amelia only repeats herself. “Let go.”

The boy lets go, only to immediately grab onto the lapel of her suit jacket instead. This, Amelia allows, so she might get a closer look at the scar again.

“It’s awful,” she says bluntly, seeing how the gashes run off his face, held together by white butterfly stitches. As if remembering he has them on, Arthur reaches up to scratch and Amelia catches his hand instead, smiling as she brings it to her mouth to kiss it. “Don’t do that, child. You’ll just make it worse.”

Arthur struggles briefly, then makes a questioning noise, looking right at her.

“Amelia,” she introduces herself.

He burbles, “Mala!”

“Ah-me-lee,” Amelia rounds it out, giving up on the last syllable; he’ll be lucky if he gets two, at this age.

“Am’lee!” the child exclaims and that’s enough for Amelia, who showers him with praise and overall, quite enjoys the time spent with him. But she can’t forget Selene, not for a moment – the Deathdealer watching every action with unblinking eyes, tense, as if waiting for Amelia to drop some horrible decision on her.

So, brushing her thumb over one edge of his scar in one last motion to dislodge the barest flake of open wound – and something in her mind sparks there; don’t mortal children heal quicker than this? – Amelia hands the boy back to his new mother, who takes him eagerly.

“You’ll be great one day,” she promises Arthur, before speaking to Selene, asking one last time, “Do you want this? To raise him and be his mother?” She doesn’t say she has any other choice; Selene has already proven herself an able caretaker and when Amelia approves of something, she doesn’t want that approval to be for naught.

Luckily for Selene, the other woman is agreeable, cradling the boy as she replies, “Yes. I do, my lady, truly.”

“Good.” Amelia turns away, reaching to the glass coffee table for another folder of resources, these ones straight from her own mouth made reality. “I’ve organised funds for his upbringing and rearranged my yearly itinerary for the foreseeable future to visit. My ward will want for nothing and he shall be loyal to this Coven. You are his mother – but only by my grace.” She holds out the folder to Selene, meeting her eyes. “Remember that.”

“I will.”

Selene meets her gaze without fear.

Amelia wonders if she should correct that.

Once the other vampire and her charge are sent away, Amelia sends for Kraven, who arrives promptly, impatient. She barely has any time at all to get the taste of Arthur’s blood out of her mouth; obviously, Kraven heard something about her meetings with Selene. Not in the best mood when he opens his mouth to speak, Amelia interrupts him.

“You forget yourself.” She doesn’t even look at him, instead playing around with the London Office’s investigative report. Her calm hides her irritation. “Sit.”

Kraven sits opposite her in an armchair, too riled and anxious to sit perfectly still. Why Viktor chose him over Shamirah – frugality aside – Amelia will never know. He was a foot-soldier for so long, until the war against the lycans. Warriors turned administrators never sat well with her.

“You did well in calling me,” she starts, deliberately giving him false praise. She knows Selene asked for her. Drawing pale fingers up her leg, nails dragging over her skirt, Amelia watches his gaze follow it for the barest second. _Men. So predictable._ But just that predictability makes her irritation vanish in an instant, leaving her with a pure and simple want for manipulation. “Arthur is an un-asked for complication. Your thoughts on the matter would be enlightening. Give them to me.”

“Whatever he’s for, lycan plot or not, his blood is toxic and vile,” Kraven says, “It’s indicative of a larger conspiracy.”

“He came from war,” Amelia says, describing the state of magical Europe. “A warlock has been ravaging his own realm. You probably haven’t noticed the difference, so far removed from his base of operations.”

The regent finally settles, brow furrowing as he leans forwards on his thighs, drawn in. “I asked some contacts about it all, but they only said it was over.”

“Arthur belonged to the warlocks that killed this evil, surviving their fatal death curse,” she informs him in a frank manner. “He’s their version of a miracle, a Jesus Christ reincarnate, living through death where none have ever before. With the dispersion of their leader, the darker-inclined warlocks are turning tail. The magical societies are in upheaval as they scramble to turn their governments into beacons of goodness and justness, in line with the new British establishment’s ethos.”

Kraven’s expression flickers. “Why is Britain so important to the warlocks, of all places?”

“It doesn’t matter. The further away they are to, the better. I don’t want the average vampire getting involved with them, not until I’ve hammered out a new treaty.”

As expected, Kraven’s eyes widen. “But Viktor-”

“Viktor isn’t here,” Amelia snaps, baring her fangs. Her irritation returns in an instant. “Markus is the next to wake! Viktor’s will ended the moment I took his place as Elder and I’ll remind you to show the proper respect, boy!”

He flinches, but Amelia is not done. Standing, she steps over the coffee table and grabs him by the throat, pushing him back in his chair. Her fangs remain bared as a threat, eyes a poisonous swirl of green. Amelia wasn’t always just a vampire – and it shows in how Kraven crumples, mesmerised by her compulsion, forked tongue hissing behind her teeth.

“You will bow and you will scrape your chin on the very floor where you kneel, if myself or my ward ask it of you. Arthur will be prince in these halls and if his life is in danger, you will step in front of that danger and defend him, until the end of his days.” She tightens her grip on his throat, until he begins to choke beneath her, shaking, her guards not doing a single thing to stop her.

“You are pathetic,” she hisses, thinking of the greatest mortal wars and his pleading for recognition, “If you wish to retain any credibility in the eyes of the Elders, you will learn from your mistakes – and _quickly.”_

When she releases him, Kraven gasps for breath, but there is a new fear to his eyes, one she remembers and _relishes_ as she stands, turning her back on him. She walks over to the fireplace and draws her finger across the dusty surface, watching in the mirror as Kraven stumbles to his feet, practically falling backwards towards the door.

“And Kraven?” she calls out as he reaches for the handle. She meets his eyes in the mirror, drawling as she rubs the dust off her fingers, “Hire a different cleaning staff. You can do better.”

“By your will, Lady Amelia,” he murmurs, before escaping. Amelia grins at the nearest guard, one of her favourite play-toys. She was called Olivia, the last time she checked.

“How was that? Fun to watch?”

Maybe-Olivia quirks her lip, then offers, “Maybe you should have made a comment about his hair?”

“Hmm…” Amelia considers it, then rejects the idea. Personal comments about the breadth of ones personality is different from attacking ones appearance. She runs her tongue across her teeth, shuddering at the remnant of Arthur’s blood. How awful for the child, to be so ugly to taste. “Get me a drink. And call Itzal – the reworking of my itinerary needs to be more in-depth than our earlier discussion, or it’ll bother me for the rest of the month.”

Her guards don’t bother with platitudes, with _yes, my lady_ or _no, my lady._ They – unlike some – get things done immediately and without protest. A glass of synthesised blood is made in the corner of the room and presented to her on a silver platter, while her faithful Itzal enters and bows at the waist – again, not wasting _time_.

“How more detailed do you need it to be, Amelia?”

“More than it is,” she answers, dropping onto the settee and letting her back bend. Itzal, ever composed, wrinkles his nose just slightly enough for her to smile, knowing her lack of manners is bothering him. Making it easier on her friend, Amelia adjusts her position, instead leaning over the open files on the coffee table, helping him cover them with the spread of paper that is her itinerary.

“I’m willing to be more flexible on visiting Hungary,” she immediately concedes, knowing it’s the main problem, “However, I want just as many.”

“This many?” Itzal teases, raising two fingers.

“At least ten,” Amelia agrees, the old joke bringing a smile to her face before they get back down to business. “If I’m to call him my ward, I want to see him at least thrice a year, four if possible.”

“I’ll have to meet this boy,” says Itzal. “We can move Portugal, but the evenings will be later.”

“No, the Portuguese dislike the lateness as it is,” she replies, saying, “I’m sure he’ll be fascinated by you. He seems delicate to look at, but his grip is worse than any pet birds.”

“I’m tempted to say that was a reference to your old parrot.”

“It was. Don’t ever mention Charles again. I shouldn’t have made that comparison – now everyone will tease.” Amelia picks out their trip to the Northern Coven, gliding her finger along _May_. “They won’t mind waiting for me. We can fit a longer trip in next year if we net the April deal with the Chinese. Staying longer could do us a favour.”

“I still disagree with that trip and honestly, old Charlie wasn’t that bad.”

“I know, but I miss him, so no bird jokes, please,” Amelia replies, reaching across to flick him on the nose. “And I know you don’t like the Shanghai deal, but I want contingencies and they’re the only ones willing to keep it all quiet.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Itzal complains, rubbing at his nose, the paler skin of his palms in comparison to his dark face fascinating Amelia as it always has. Itzal pauses, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got that look on you again.”

“What look?” Amelia asks, not even pretending not to stare anymore.

Her old friend sighs, muttering, “Well, it’s either the Painting Stare or the Sex Eyes. You pick.”

“Painting stare. You know as well as I do that I couldn’t see colours before the change, so stop complaining.”

“You’ve literally been around a hundred years longer than I have,” the elderly man faux-groans, leaning back in his chair. “I’m nearly fourteen hundred, _Emília.”_

Amelia restrains herself from sticking her tongue out at him.

“How long has it been since you were mortal?” He continues, teasing, “You’re _old_ , friend.”

“Shut up,” she drawls, giving in. Itzal, just as childish, wiggles his tongue right back at her, before she taps on _January._ “Move the New Years party to Budapest. Shamirah’s getting too ostentatious in America, anyway.”

“Semira,” Itzal corrects, making Amelia grumble.

“That’s not even a real name. She’s been Jewish for a thousand years, why should the Holocaust change that?”

“It’s about boredom,” says Itzal, getting distracted by the calendar. “And the inevitable linguistic evolution of her name, on her own terms. You can hardly talk.”

“I’m still Emília on paperwork, so that’s not a fair comparison,” Amelia argues. Itzal throws a pen at her playfully and Amelia only leans to the side with her goblet, sipping it as hits the back of the settee. “So, New Years?”

“Not doable,” he pronounces, “and your attendance is mandatory, of course, unless you want to convalesce alone.”

“Alone with the council.”

“Alone with your ward,” Itzal says, tilting his head as he watches her reaction. Amelia thinks on it. ‘Alone’ isn’t something she ever is, not really. There’s always someone watching, a guard if no-one else. “Word will spread. You might as well begin the favouritism now.”

“I might,” Amelia says, her tone telling Itzal all he needs to know: she’ll consider it. Draining her glass, Amelia holds it out to the nearest guard, who attends to her as Itzal stars the date with Arthur’s Hungarian name written in black beside it. Part of her, for the briefest moment, yearns for it to say something different – until she grabs that feeling and stifles it, burrowing it under everything she is.

“Poland,” she says to Itzal, who gestures both to May and July, asking which one. “July, simpleton.”

“Big words from such a small lady.”

“I _will_ hurt you, cretin.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

It seems like no time at all passes, but eventually the warning sounds for sunrise and Amelia returns to her quarters, Itzal getting in one last parting shot about Charles the parrot when no-one’s listening. Amelia restrains herself only out of necessity; if they were in private, she’d put him in a headlock, most definitely.

The next night is a flurry of activity, the traditional third night of her arrival full of petitions as the surrounding vampire lords take day-trips to Budapest seeking her counsel. Kraven stays on the outer edges, she notes, along with the majority of his people, while Selene and Arthur are nowhere to be found.

Around two am, Amelia becomes bothered by their absence and excuses herself for a short break, having Maia switch places with her. Not many know that under her headdress, Maia is an almost completely identical doppelganger of their precious Elder and Amelia intends to keep it that way, as it’s extremely useful in moments like these, when Amelia needs to run a solo errand.

Edgar, under the guise of accompanying his wife through Ördögház, is her guard on this mission. It’s all Amelia has known for over a thousand year: at least one person there, at all times, watching her back. Edgar’s care, his arm around her waist, warming her from the inside even though she knows that while to an outsider, it seems possessive, he means it as her defence should an attack come from any direction, is part of that.

“Let’s go see Selene and Amelia’s ward,” she murmurs in Maia’s sweet tones, gathering her skirt expertly. It’s a learned habit more than anything else, one Amelia suspects will never fade from her memory so long as the world insists upon the existence of full-length skirts.

Abandoning the gathering downstairs, Amelia and Edgar make their way to Selene’s apartments, knocking gently. Selene answers and seems just as taken by the disguise as any other, her nod short and her tone shorter.

“Lady Maia.”

“Lady Selene,” Amelia greets in turn, not yet dispensing of Maia’s voice. “May we enter?”

“Arthur is currently asleep,” says Selene, asking, “Is your business urgent?”

“Do not turn us away,” Edgar replies, the danger in his voice tinted with warning. Selene looks at them both with a stone face, hiding her thoughts – though to Amelia, they are easy to read.

“Let us in,” she murmurs, seeking a weakness where stubbornness might waver, “and a secret shall be revealed to you.”

The Deathdealer still does not budge. “Secrets have no use to me.”

“You unknowingly tread a fine line,” says Edgar. He works hard for her, bless his soul. “My lady Amelia shall be displeased.”

“If the Lady Amelia wishes to speak to me, she can do so herself.” Selene notes, “She is certainly far more capable than you.”

The compliment wrapped in a barb against one of her council members both impresses and enrages her. Viktor’s daughter is abrasive and either incredibly bold or incredibly naïve. And Amelia, who has never been known to have anything less than a fiery temper, pushes back in an instant and enters her quarters, Edgar right behind her to close the doors as Selene reverses away with a hiss.

“You are not welcome!”

“Hold your tongue.” Edgar orders her, locking them in. Amelia, burning with the desire to discipline this New World vampire, removes the main part of her disguise, watching Selene as her expression becomes fraught with terror upon realising she is faced with an Elder.

“Amelia,” she gasps.

“ _Selene_.” Amelia mocks her. “I expected better, you know. My council is made up of some of my closest friends and allies. Maia and Edgar are only two my eleven most trusted.”

Selene’s instinct is to kneel, head bowed low. “Forgive me.”

“It is Maia to whom you owe an apology, but for now, that will do.” She does not give her the command to rise, gesturing to Edgar to watch her as she scans the room, finding her ward asleep in the centre of Selene’s four-poster bed. Approaching him, Amelia sits down on the rumpled sheets, imagining what this boy will one day afford her.

“This is the beginning of a long road,” she says, loud enough for Selene to hear. For a moment, she considers touching him – but no. She should let him sleep. Punishing Selene with his grumpiness would do him no favours. “In time, I expect trust to emerge between us, but I am not idiotic enough to believe it will occur without give, on my part. You will be copied into a basic version of my itinerary and given a personal communication lines direct to myself, through a member of my council. Do you have any preferences or will Maia suffice?”

“Your will is mine, Lady Amelia.”

“You aren’t that deferential,” the Elder mutters, snapping, “Act like yourself.”

“I don’t think you want that.”

“But I _do,”_ Amelia returns, looking at her finally. Selene stands a moment later, without permission or courtesy. “There. Keep that up. In private, at least.”

“Yes, my lady.”

_I’ll give her permission to call me Amelia when the boy begins to speak full sentences,_ she plans, nodding. Looking to Edgar, she gestures to the door and makes her first move in this game of chess she plays.

“Wait outside.”

Edgar revolts, his eyes turning to blue fire. “My lady!”

“Selene will be one of us.” Amelia regards him firmly, saying again, “Wait outside.” _Trust me,_ she doesn’t say to him, not needing to.

There has always been a dissonance between herself and her fellow Elders. Where Viktor surrounds himself with enemies and still remains above them out of spite and where Markus flies in the face of expectations, gathering his devoted like flies to honey, Amelia has had to _work_ for her council. They each are individuals whom she knows like the back of her hand, who were her friends and servants first, before they ever became councillors. Desmona, her chosen regent and eleventh council member, was given to her as a handmaiden in her first century of life and turned less than twenty years later, almost an Elder in her own right; Iztal, a merchant who pledged his holdings to her after she rode into battle with his brother against slavers and brought back his body, when he fell; Edgar, the youngest of her councillors, who fell in love with Maia the moment he laid eyes on her and gained his station only after convincing her to bless their marriage. All her allies – but forever her friends.

Edgar only hesitates a second longer, before nodding. When he unlocks the doors and leaves to stand outside, Amelia walks over to Selene and holds out her arm, like in days of old.

“I expected you downstairs, but this talk has proven itself the better option.” She says with understanding, “I know you are loyal to Viktor. I won’t stop you from being loyal to Viktor-” _even though with a single sentence, I could reveal his treachery and bind you to me forever_ “-and Selene, know this: you are bold and bright – and the path we now walk for Arthur is as delicate as it is revolutionary. If not your servitude, then I would have your _friendship.”_

“You are an Elder,” Selene murmurs, asking, “Can there even be such a thing?” But there is connection, between them, Selene reaching to grasp her outstretched arm in allyship.

“I am old, but not blind. The men have their egos and Viktor, especially, likes to collect those who have useful skills. I am not after your skills.”

Amelia smiles her most glorious smile, pulling Selene in closer, until they share the same air. She sees the hitch in her shoulders, hears the stutter in her heartbeat.

Yes.

She most definitely wants Selene as her own.

“I am after _you.”_


End file.
